The Nightmare Scenario (2 page)

Sister Rosa picked up the boy and held him in her arms, rocking him and gently patting his back in an attempt to calm him. It took three lullabies and many soothing words of reassurance before the young child gradually calmed down.

With the boy in her arms, she continued her walk around the village, moving from hut to hut in search of other survivors. She found three: the elderly medicine man, a young woman and her husband, all crammed into a single hut. They were all running high fevers, cringing in pain, lying in their own vomit. A nurse by training, she immediately started to do what she could, administering what little medicine she had with her, antibiotics and painkillers to lower the fever.

She’d seen terminally ill patients before, but never anything quite like this. The condition of the medicine man reminded her of those elderly patients for whom the seasonal influenza led to death by pneumonia. The young woman though, with those dark discolorations around her neck, she didn’t know what to make of. They
were clearly sick, but from what? What in the Lord’s name could wipe out a whole village? It was unheard of.

She found her satellite phone and dialed the monastery.

“Sister Mona,” she said in an unsteady voice, “please, listen carefully. I need to relay a message to the WHO office in Jakarta.”

PRIMORIS
CONTACTUS

(First contact)

JULY 8
^TH
, DINNERTIME, THE REFORM CLUB, 104 PALL MALL, LONDON

D
r. Aeolus Pentecost Hughes could not believe his bad luck. He came to the Reform Club for peace and quiet, and, more importantly, stimulating conversation, something which was nearly always guaranteed at the members’ table. Today, however, he had been seated next to Jean-Pierre, an – in Aeolus’s mind – singularly annoying Frenchman. Jean-Pierre was a reciprocal member from some club in Paris, whom Aeolus had come across once or twice before. He was fiercely nationalistic, Anglophobic even, and obnoxiously so. Still, he was sitting at the members’ table and the club rules were unequivocal on this point – everyone at the members’ table should be invited into the conversation.

“Take shirts for instance,” Jean-Pierre went on, “there is no shirt maker in England that can compare to the quality and panache of what Charvet makes in Paris. Did you know that they offer
two hundred
shades of white in their stock of cloth?”

Aeolus raised his glass, appreciating the wine’s color under the warm light of the crystal chandeliers. It had a tint of orange you would not generally expect from a Bordeaux.

“Yes, actually I did,” he responded, “but I have never really understood the necessity for it.”

Jean-Pierre lifted his own glass, mimicking Aeolus’s inspection, and continued. “Ah, you Americans have no sense of style. It is just not part of your barbaric nature. Look at you for instance. What is that? Turnbull & Asser?” Jean-Pierre said with a tone of smug superiority.

Aeolus slowly set down his glass. Steadying his hand, trembling from frustration, required his full concentration. He responded in a tone as matter-of-factly as he could manage, given his exasperation: “Yes, indeed it is. And I think there’s a case to be made for them, considering they have had among their customers most of the European royalty, all the Bond actors and every movie star of significance during the Golden Era. Even you must agree that Fred Astaire looked good in his shirts?”

“Well, I’ll give you that, but then you must concede that French clothing is superior in many other areas. Take Dimitri Gomez bespoke shoes or Hermès ties, for instance.”

“Frankly, I am not ecstatic about Hermès ties. I, along with many heads of state, including most of the American presidents, prefer Marinella. Your own Hermès tie, for instance, is a tad too slim for my taste.”

“You know what they say. Fashion today is toward the tiny,” Jean-Pierre answered with a grin, scooping
up a spoonful of pumpkin soup and slurping it down with sound much to loud to be appropriate for the environment.

Aeolus shifted uncomfortably in his chair and thought to himself: “well, in that case, you must have the most fashionable brain in London”, while hearing himself respond, as if from a distance: “But the Hermès pocket squares are without equal. I can’t argue with that. The silk is of unbeatable quality, and the hand-rolled edges are craftsmanship at its finest.” He hoped that this concession would end the debate and, at least for a moment, silence the Frenchman.

“Et, voilà! Finally we agree on something! Let’s celebrate with a glass of digestif – Armagnac; another fantastic product of French heritage.”

As if in answer to Aeolus’s silent prayers, the maître d’ came up behind him and gently tapped his shoulder.

“Dr. Hughes, there’s a telephone call for you, sir.”

Aeolus picked up the starched linen napkin from his lap and dabbed the corners of his mouth. He gave a small sigh of relief. “Well, adieu, Jean-Pierre. Until we meet again…”

He rose as the maître d’ pulled out his chair. Looking down at Jean-Pierre from his imposing height of six-foot-five, grabbed his cane and gave the Frenchman a courteous nod.

Following the maître d’ down the stairs from the dining room, a sense of calm returned to Aeolus. The club’s atmosphere had that effect on him. The old dark wooden panels, the paintings of ancient dignitaries
and members, the well-worn green carpets, all played together to create a bond with an earlier time, a more civilized era, through tradition unchanged. That was what he sought and found here – a connection to the past.

No single object in the club conveyed this more than the old clock. It was the same clock before which Phileas Fogg had made his twenty thousand pound bet that he could travel around the world in eighty days. This club was indeed, as clubs were supposed to be, his home away from home. As he continued down the stairs, the clock struck eight behind him, with deep reverberating chimes.

Aeolus entered the phone room and lifted the receiver. It was an old Bakelite phone, a phone suitable to the surroundings of the club, a phone in which one could converse while maintaining a sense of dignity; a rare quality among apparatuses in these modern times.

The voice at the other end was that of Walt Myers. Walt was his Chief of Staff, whom Aeolus had kept on from the last administration when he took over as Director-General of the World Health Organization. Walt was a peculiar character, not much of a doctor, but a capable administrator. At first, Aeolus could not understand how Walt could have possibly gotten the job, given his weak academic credentials. Walt had, however, proven invaluable to compensate for Aeolus’s own, slightly – not to say massively – disorganized behavior.

“Yes, Walt,” Aeolus exhaled. “I’ve rarely been so glad to hear your voice. What now?”

“Sir, we might have something of a situation. It’s probably nothing, but I thought I’d bring it to your attention anyway. Better safe than sorry, as you often say.”

“Yes, indeed. What do we have?”

“We have a report from a nun, working in the easternmost parts of Indonesia. Papua, I believe the region is called.”

“Yes, that’s what it’s called. What about it?”

“She reported a whole indigenous village dead, wiped out by something she was convinced was an infection. She claimed that tribesmen had pneumonia-like symptoms and furthermore reports discolorations of the skin.”

“And how would she know how to recognize pneumonia? Is she by any chance a doctor?”

“No, but a trained nurse.”

“Walt, in all likelihood this is a contamination of their water supply. For all we know, ‘pneumonia-like symptoms’ could mean a cough.”

“Yes, I thought so, too.”

“I mean, there’s no way this is an infection. A one hundred percent mortality rate is unheard of. It has to be something else.”

“Yes, I just thought I’d make you aware of it.”

“…Unless, of course, they’ve been isolated and lack our basic immunities,” said Aeolus, his mind regaining focus, shaking off the effects of the claret he’d had with dinner.

“Should we let it go?” asked Walt.

“No, it’s serious enough. This is what we’re here for. We have to investigate. As you said yourself, better safe than sorry. When did this happen?”

“The call came in about ten days ago,” Walt answered calmly.

“What!?” Aeolus exclaimed in a voice loud enough to be heard outside the booth. “The call came ten days ago? And we’re only hearing about this now? Is this some sort of joke!?” Aeolus cast a brief anxious glance outside to ensure that no club member had been bothered by his loss of temper.

Walt cleared his throat. “When the call came in, the local manager wrote it off as a case of little importance and placed it in the low-priority queue. A young intern found it and thought it was worth calling in.”

“Ten days? That means it will be impossible to get a live sample, at least if it’s viral. I’d be surprised if a virus could survive in a body in that climate more than two or three days.”

“Yeah, it was a bit of a SNAFU from the locals.”

“You think!?” Aeolus knuckles turned white from his hardening grip around the cane. “What about the nun?”

“No contact since she called it in. How do you want to handle it?”

Aeolus spent a moment of thought going through the options available to him. He considered the more experienced members of his staff, but none of them really met with his approval. This was either nothing or something new. It would require instinct, not procedure. He could think of just one person whom he would be comfortable leading this, apart from himself.

“Let’s send that Rebecca Summers girl.”

“Summers? You mean the young woman from the Epidemic Intelligence Service conference last year?
Maybe I’m overstepping my bounds here, but isn’t she a bit too junior for this? You don’t think we should let the locals handle it, rather than flying someone across the world?”

“I think we can both agree that the locals have done enough damage already. I’ll get her on a plane to head up the team. Make sure there’s equipment in place when she arrives: HAZMAT suits, maps, vehicles, guides, whatever they may need.”

“Of course. Just one detail. You are aware that she doesn’t work for us, right? She works for the CDC. You’re going to have to get Hank Wiley’s approval.”

“Yes, Walt, thank you, I’m aware of that” Aeolus answered, his voice tinged with annoyance. Walt had a tendency to raise concerns that were, to Aeolus’s mind, minute details unworthy of his attention. This irritation was never more pronounced than when he knew that Walt was right.

“Just get the logistics in order, and I’ll take care of the rest,” said Aeolus and moved to hang up the receiver.

He saw Jean-Pierre walking past the booth, unsteady from excessive alcohol consumption, apparently on his way home. Aeolus regretted that he did not have time to go back and finish his dinner in peace and quiet.

He put the receiver back to his ear.

“Walt, one more thing. Please fire whoever this sad excuse for a manager they have down there is.”

“I can’t do that, you know we have no authority over who works at the local WHO offices. And also, if I may, sir, albeit clearly a mistake, this hardly qualifies as a sufficient reason to terminate employment.”

“I’ll be the judge of that, Walt. Remember: ‘Men are not hanged for stealing horses, but that horses may not be stolen.’” He went on, “I don’t know how you do these things, but I know you can. Just get it done. Use my name if you have to. For the love of God, use the Secretary General’s name if you have to. Just get it done!”

With that, Aeolus hung up, and made for the exit. At the reception desk, the maître d’ met him, handing him his briefcase, phone and double-breasted cashmere coat.

Aeolus took them with a courteous nod.

“Could you please do me the favor, if such an opportunity arises, of letting our French guest know that my name is pronounced AY-o-lus, not ah-YO-lus. I am, after all, not a condiment.”

The maître d’ smiled gently and nodded back with great poise and dignity, reassuring Aeolus that she would do just that, and that she would do it with an appropriateness that would most certainly be lost on the Frenchman.

Once outside, Aeolus shivered as the cool London mist enveloped him. After all these years in London, he had still not been able to adjust to it. No clothes could stop it. It just went straight through to your bones. He picked up his phone and called Jitsuko.

Jitsuko was Aeolus’s assistant, or, to be more precise, one of his three assistants. He had Jitsuko based in San Francisco, Tomomi in Hong Kong and Mandy at the office in Geneva. Together, they covered him around the clock – and he needed it. Obviously, the WHO budget did not allow for excesses like this. He paid for them himself. He had the means to do it. In fact, he
had the means to do almost anything he wanted. His father had seen to that.

“Jitsuko, how quickly can you get someone from Atlanta to Jayapura in Indonesia?”

“Jayapura? Where exactly is that? Do they even have an airport? Well, never mind.”

Aeolus listened with contentment to the rapid clicking of her keyboard as she raced to find a solution. In the same way as incompetence frustrated him enormously, observing people who really knew their jobs gave him great satisfaction. And his assistants were very good at their jobs. They were among those few who never disappointed him.

The clicking stopped and Jitsuko came back on: “Can I use a private jet? In that case, I’d say twenty-four hours.”

“Okay, go ahead. Use whatever means you have to and charge anything that is outside of the expense policy to my private account.”

“Who are we transporting?”

“A brilliant young epidemiologist named Rebecca Summers.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes, please get hold of said Rebecca for me, coordinate the logistics with her, get Leonard to pick me up and set up a call with Hank Wiley. Also, have Mandy cancel my appointments tomorrow. I need to go to Geneva.”

“You know you’re giving two speeches in London tomorrow?”

“Yes, we’re going to have to staff them out to someone else, one of ‘The Others’.” By “The Others” Aeolus was referring to the seven Assistant-Directors General who
didn’t work with epidemics. “This is more important. My real job is, after all, to keep the world safe, not to scare up committees to get them to increase our funding.”